Chapter 25 (Patreon)

Josh did not tell him why.

He found Robert at the edge of the yard just after the first meal. The sun was high but its warmth barely reached them through a chilling breeze. Josh stepped in front of Robert with a swift motion, using his physical presence to redirect Robert’s attention. Catching him by the shoulder, he ensured Robert couldn't evade him. His grip was firm, not harsh, but decisive. "You’re coming with me," he commanded, his voice clipped and brooking no argument. It was the same tone he used for assigning jobs, though this time, there was something more urgent, an undercurrent of tension that made Robert’s heart skip.

They crossed the square without stopping. Halfway to the keep, Josh spoke again, low enough that it didn’t carry past them.

“Lord Harold’s an honest man,” he said. “He expects the same back. Say what you mean. Don’t try to sound smart. Don’t pad any facts, and you’ll be fine. If he does the scary Lord aura thing, don't be afraid. Sometimes his emotions get the best of him, but he’s getting better at it.” He hesitated for a moment, recalling an aide’s misstep with Harold when he misunderstood the Lord's intentions. “Actually...might be better to just let him do the talking.”

Robert nodded, not trusting his voice, and wiped his palms on his trousers because they had started to sweat.

Inside the keep, the air changed. Cool stone, the faint bitter smell of smoke, and the morning meal. Sound carried differently here—boots on the floor, a door closing somewhere above, the murmur of voices that never quite became words.

Four legionaries stood in a square at the end of the main hall, shields grounded, spears upright. Between them, a pale mushroom, reminiscent of the soft luminescence of a Vermeer painting, cast a steady, clean light that washed the ceiling in silver. Beside it, set on a low stone block, was a small hobgoblin figure intricately carved, its features as detailed and deliberate as the brushstrokes of a master artist from Robert's museum days.

Robert slowed his pace unconsciously, his feet dragging as he took in the sight before him.

“Come on,” Josh urged, but there was no edge in his voice.

They took the first flight of stairs. Halfway up a door stood open, and a burst of laughter spilled into the stairwell, someone inside arguing about a missing whetstone, another voice calling for a strap. The smell of oiled leather and sweat drifted out with it. A helmet rolled across the floor inside the room, and someone swore as it struck the wall. Robert felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with uncertainty; the bustling noise momentarily clashed with his internal worry about the upcoming meeting, but the camaraderie in the chaos was oddly reassuring.

At the landing, the noise dropped away again. They passed a row of open doors where people bent over tables covered in the same rough sheets Robert had seen in Beth’s stores, charcoal in their hands, clay weights holding corners down. Josh lifted a hand as they went by.

“Morning, Rich. That brace hold?”

“Sure, did,” someone answered without looking up.

“Tell Anil I’ll have numbers tonight,” Josh shouted toward another doorway.

Robert kept his eyes forward, aware of how loud his boots sounded on the stone.

The second set of stairs was narrower. At the top, Margaret stood with two aides, a spread of marked sheets in her hands. She looked up as they reached the last step, her eyes narrowing slightly as if measuring Robert against some internal standard. A smudge of ink decorated the side of her hand, unforgotten evidence of a morning spent scribing reports.

Her gaze moved over him once, quick and exact—the dirty clothes he had on, the calluses in his hands, the way he held his shoulders as if he were still carrying weight.

He stood there, not sure if he was meant to speak.

“He will do,” Margaret pronounced, already turning back to the table. “I need a copy of those numbers you owe Anil. You dropped a mess on our plate with that reveal yesterday.”

She stepped aside without looking at him again, her attention returning to the quiet exchange with her aides.

Josh pushed the door open.

The office smelled sharp and unfamiliar—dark, roasted, with a thread of sweetness. Harold stood near a small brazier with a kettle in hand, pouring a thin stream of black liquid into two clay cups. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. A damp line darkened the collar of his tunic, and his hair was still flattened from a helmet.

He looked up and grinned as they came in, the expression easy in a way it never was in the square.

“Good,” he said. “You found him.”

Robert stopped two paces inside the room because that felt like the right distance. Up close, he could see the map spread across the table, the clay weights stamped with the marks for logging and road crews, and something else he didnt understand.

Harold handed one of the cups to Josh without looking and leaned back against the edge of the table, studying Robert as if he had all the time in the world.

“Sorry for dragging you from breakfast,” Harold continued, still smiling a little. “I needed to grab you before you headed to your shift.”

Robert remembered what he had been told on the walk across the square.

“Ah. Yes. No problem, My Lord,” Robert managed.

“None of that,” Harold objected, lifting his hand as if to brush the title out of the air between them. “No need for the formalities when it’s just us. Harold is fine.”

Robert blinked, the word Harold sticking somewhere behind his teeth, and settled for a nod that felt safer than trying to say it.

Josh took a slow sip from the cup, leaning his shoulder against the wall like he meant to stay out of the way.

Harold watched Robert for another heartbeat, then tipped his head toward the empty space at the side of the table. “Stand or sit where you’re comfortable. You’re not on inspection.”

Robert shifted half a step to the right, glancing at the table and the people in the room as he tried to figure out why he was here.

“You ran the pit alone last night,” Harold said. “Josh tells me that wasn’t the first time you’ve done that.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Robert said before he could stop himself. “Beth called my name.”

Harold’s mouth twitched. “But you didn’t say no either.”

Harold took a drink from his own cup and set it down on the table beside the clay weights. “What did you do before this?” he asked, tapping one of the rough sheets with a charcoal-stained finger, “before the Landing, and Gravensend. Back on Earth.”

Robert’s eyes dropped to the fibers in the paper for a second as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I was an art history student,” he said. “I was finishing my degree while I worked in a museum part-time. Mostly cataloging new exhibits that came in and out.” He gave a small, embarrassed huff of breath. “Nothing that really translates here.”

“It translates,” Harold said. “You spent your days maintaining accountability of items. That’s a skill needed anywhere. Why art history instead of just…learning art though?” Harold asked as he took another sip of his coffee.

Robert glanced up, not sure if that was a correction or a kindness, but his eyes followed the coffee either way.

Noticing the gaze, Harold poured another cup with a heavy heart and handed it to him, much to Robert’s delight. He lifted the cup to his nose and savored the smell deeply before risking a sip. A groan traveled through him before his brain started working again.

“Art History,” Harold prompted him again. “Why that instead of learning art?”

I... I’ve always been drawn more to the old masters. Rembrandt and Caravaggio, particularly, had an emotional depth that resonated with me. His ability to capture light and shadow conveyed such a profound feeling. Modern art, for me, lacks that reach; it's more about provoking thought than transmitting emotion. I miss the skill and heartfelt expression of past eras." Robert sighed, letting the aroma of the coffee envelop him. "Now, it's all abstract. Where is the life, the laughter, the love?"

Harold smiled at his obvious passion while Josh snickered to himself nearby. Like he didnt obsessively study Baroque architecture for the last few days on earth.

“What did you think you were going to do with an Art History degree?” Harold asked.

“Teach,” Robert said with a shrug. “Eventually. Maybe get into restoration if I were able to. I liked…” He hesitated, searching for a word that didn’t sound thin in the stone room. “I liked the idea of preserving such a piece of history. Maybe attempting a couple of pieces of my own.”

Harold nodded once, as if that matched something he had already decided.

“And now,” Harold went on. “What are you aiming for? Gathering wood is important right now, but it won't be forever. Surely you have something else in mind.”

Robert’s hands had curled loosely, his fingers unconsciously mimicking the grip on an axe. He noticed and straightened them, resting them flat against his thighs.

“Control,” he started, then stopped, as he knew it would be wrong.

Kers’ voice cut across the memory of the ring, rough with smoke and laughter. Good on you for learning to step forward instead of waiting for it to come to you.

Robert rubbed his thumb against the seam of his trousers and ran a little mana into an endurance perk he gained. It helped him stand up and face the imposing presence of the Lord of the Landing.

Named for where they all landed in this shit world, where people died constantly, and the forum was full of stories of family looking for lost family. People are being snatched by monsters straight out of legend, and hard work is rewarded with more hard work. Where he had friends, where he had a measure of control over his own life. A notification appeared in his vision, but he dismissed it quickly as his thoughts raced.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly, but his voice was growing in strength. “Back then. I had a plan because that’s what you do, I guess. Finish the degree, find a position, keep moving along the line they lay out for you.”

“Here… It’s different. In Gravesend. I didn’t expect to know anyone. Now I do. I’ve got people I work with. People who notice if I don’t show up.”

Lynn’s face flashed across his mind—bow slung over her shoulder, that sharp smile she offered freely, and how curious she was about every aspect of this world—and he pushed the thought aside before it could sit too long.

He said, 'I love art. That hasn't changed. I liked learning why something was made, how it was done. But I was always outside it, just cataloging and memorizing. Here, I don't want that anymore. I want to forge what's actually mine, something I care enough about to build, not just study.'

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, eyes still fixed on the Lord's face.

Josh’s cup paused halfway to his mouth.

Harold didn’t look at him. His attention stayed on Robert, the smile gone now. Intent was heavy in his gaze as he looked Robert in the eye and decided right there that the young man was perfect.

His smile grew sharp as he went over to his shelves covered in ledgers. The sound of the clay pot settling onto the desk was heavy and resonant. "Robert, I have an offer for you that will change your life as you know it." Harold leaned forward, studying Robert's reaction. "How do you feel about adventure?"

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